Eulogy For A Fussy Cat

She hid there, under the bed.

Well, perhaps _hid_ is the wrong term. She strategically ensconced herself in a location of advantage. There, that’s better.

Her adversary, the white devil of whom Samantha had failed to instill within any real respect, that demon of a cat who had grown exponentially from the annoying little furball of only perhaps a year past, was fighting a war of retribution against some mistakenly perceived slights that had been for the kitten’s own good — indeed, the cat ought to be thanking her mentor profusely for attempting to teach the graces of manners rather than attempting to extract some form of misguided ‘revenge’.

No matter. The Queen would hold court there, under the bed, until such time as her errant apprentice realised the error of her ways. Royalty is nothing without forgiveness.

Sadly, this would take some time. A very long time indeed.

The Queen had long hair. Not as long as some, but longer than most. And, the confines of her new court were simply not conducive to her customary habits of grooming. Eventually, her hair matted. Soon, it became so to the point that she could not move without suffering discomfort. Not pain — although that is a matter of opinion  — but irritation to such a point as to be intolerable to those of finer sensibilities.

She needed the assistance of her humans.

However, those lumbering beasts were the ones who introduced that white menace to her kingdom in the first place. Those poor, misguided fools. It was Samantha’s curse to have such idiotic subjects — but it was her cross to bear. Nonetheless, the Queen was still angry with the beasts — she was only feline after all — and was certainly not interested in seeking  their aid. Imagine a figure of such regal stature sinking so low as to solicit the assistance of such common animals!

She remained in her court, and the mats became much worse. It was not long before she knew pain — REAL pain — as the mats festered, and her skin became irritated, and turned to rash, and became raw.

If she exposed herself, she might have an unfortunate altercation with the white menace. If she inquired of the humans for assistance, she might put herself in a position of disadvantage for future dealings. But her fur HURT.

What is a Queen to do?

Eventually, she was forced to capitulate. “Assist Me!” she shouted at the lumbering giants high above, wary that her opponent could emerge from the wings at any moment. “But don’t touch me!” she added, aware but unconcerned about the paradox those conflicting orders presented. They were resourceful creatures, her humans — they ought to be able to discover a method of relieving her of her burden without exacerbating her suffering in the meanwhile.

Sadly, they failed to heed her demands. What sort of kingdom was this? One in which the head of state is not only fighting a civil war, but also has perhaps the world’s most disloyal subjects! She returned to her court, under the bed, to ruminate.

And the mats only became worse.

She would not beg the humans. That was an absolutely repugnant suggestion. She would emerge from her court from time to time, repeat her orders demanding assistance but without contact, and then return again without any relief as her subjects were apparently unable to satisfy such a simple, straight-forward request.

The mats became much worse.

“Repair my fur,” she demanded of one of her humans. “I don’t care if you touch me. Repair it.”

The human touched her, and she was wracked with pain.

“STOP!” she hollered. “Do not proceed any further!” The Queen moved to return to her court, but the pain of movement exceeded even that of the contact of her beast. “Repair my fur!” she reiterated. “I don’t care if you touch me. Repair it!”

The human touched her, and she was wracked with pain.

“STOP!” she hollered once again. “Do not proceed!” The Queen moved to return to her court, but the pain of her attempt was even more so than the brief contact of her beast. “Repair my fur!” she repeated. “I don’t care if you touch me. Repair it!”

The human hesitated for a moment, considering the futility of the exercise, and then touched her, and she was wracked with pain.

“STOP!” she bellowed. “Do not proceed!” Queen Samantha moved to return to her court, but found herself unable — the pain was too much to bear. She was resigned to her fate now — a monarch in defeat. “Repair my fur! I don’t care if you touch me! Repair it!”

The human was wary. Its Queen had injured it somewhat in the prior exchanges, and it was not at all keen to see its blood drawn any further. But, that was not a choice it had the privilege to make, for she who must be obeyed demanded they attempt to honour her order once again. This time, however, the human was creative — but not in a way that the Queen initially appreciated.

The human sat on her.

How humiliating. She was unable to move, restrained by the behemoth’s weight. Royalty should never see such a vile occasion.

Then, the human had its way with her.

She howled like the damned. She cursed the ancestry of her subjects, and committed them all to the fires of Hell. She demanded of the Divinity that the entire race of beasts be struck from the Earth, but despite her Divine providence it appeared God was out sight-seeing. She howled again. And again.

Eventually, the beast released her — and she had no pain. The mats were gone. However, the ordeal was so painful, and so humiliating that she decided not to return to her court under the bed. There was nothing the white devil could do to her that had not already been done. One day, she would have her revenge, she swore, but until that day, she would simply suffer the indignities her adversary would hoist upon her.

Years passed, and alliances were formed and broken between the two over and over again. Eventually, they would even become friends, however tentatively. And this would be how the Queen would inevitably obtain her revenge, for she would die, and leave her quintessential enemy, who had become her greatest friend, with regret. Regret for lost time — regret for memories best forgotten.

Regret is revenge of the worst sort.

And thus we conclude our eulogy for a fussy cat — the Queen, Samantha the First who was loved, and hated, and loved again. May the Divinity reward her well for her faithful service.

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Eulogy For A Fussy Cat

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